words: Livingroom Johnston
It has been stated that Wu Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck with! But guess what? A pregnant cop ain’t nothing to fuck with! I don’t know how or why the captain of the precinct would let her stay on patrol with a belly that must have been eight months in carrying. She was definitely on her muscle and wasn’t nobody out there going to convince her otherwise. She walked up and down the street with a tazer in her hand, glaring at everything and everyone. I knew something was going to go down.
The event took place in Downtown Brooklyn at the outdoor mall. She was quite up there in age to be pregnant in the first place and could have passed for 52 years old. The pregnant cop stood out in front of Macy’s and bingo! The little sucker was coming. A woman with a baby carriage and a child of her own approached the officer in a manner that, at first, appeared to be helpful. But she kindly removed the officer’s walkie-talkie, shoved it in the carriage and kept it moving. Whether it was right or wrong, I laughed until tears streamed down my face.
Now, with no other officers in sight, the cop in labor could not call for back up, which of course meant she was now surrounded. Her utility belt and pistol had been stolen and she was on the ground, not giving a shit about the equipment, but about what the hell she was going to do about birthing what I had assumed to be a bastard in broad day light.
I have never been one to take the side of a New York City police officer, or any officer, anywhere. Still…this shit was not right! I headed over and got grizzly with the folks around her and called for back up on my cell phone machine. The situation was surreal in the first place. Then I lit a cigarette while standing over her, so the crowd would not assault her.
“You had better be glad I’m doing this for you Ms. Lady! You should quit this damn job when you have the baby!”
“I will! I sure will!” She shouted up from the ground.
“Breathe Bitch! Breathe bitch! Get out the way!” The crowd began to chant. “Breathe Bitch! Breathe Bitch! Get out the way!”
News folks appeared out of nowhere equipped with cameras. They began recording a thin all-American broad who spoke through her nostrils.
“This is ABC News, here in Downtown Brooklyn with what appears to be a police officer in labor and her husband is standing over her to protect her!”
“Wait!” I shouted into the microphone, “I’m not the father!”
“I am! I’m the father!” a skinny Soul Brother pushed through the crowd. He was breathing heavily, as if he was the one in labor.
“Yo! That’s my ex-wife!” an older Soul Brother stated in a rage.
The two men looked into one-another’s eyes in utter amazement.
“Dad?” The younger of the two men asked.
“Jerry?”
“What’s the problem?” Asked the newscast lady.
At this point, the crowd was dispersing while a mob of male officers whooped on their heads with metal batons. The officer in labor was being rolled over onto a stretcher.
“Jerry is my son! This is unbelievable!”
“What?” The officer on the stretcher screeched.
She farted real loud and even the male officers, who were growing tired from whooping on people’s heads, laughed extremely loud. The newscast lady had to pause and hold her breath for a few seconds to hold back from laughing.
“Here we have it folks. An Oedipal situation in Downtown Brooklyn that involves a New York City police officer! The queston at hand is: Will this make it to Oprah and do these people know the Secret Law of Attraction?!”
